


Distressed Finish

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [19]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Graphic depictions of dissection, Humiliation, M/M, Rough Sex, Slapping, Whipping, adoration, graphic depictions of death, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Will shivers, blinks, and finally finds his eyes adjusting to the light as he looks up at Hannibal looming over him with a halo of sunlight around his immaculate hair.</i>
</p><p>  <i>He looks brutal and livid, a genuine avenging angel sent to earth with spear and spite and eighteen wings of gold. Will blinks at him in awe, bright smile and beautiful eyes and blood smeared against his face where he had rushed to fold the mess away.</i></p><p>Based on <a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZuAWxNOCHGM">The Guest</a>, but with a few minor Odalisque adjustments...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distressed Finish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solamentenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solamentenic/gifts).



> For [Nic](http://wiith-my-hands.tumblr.com/), who requested Will hiding in that magical unfolding bed Mads was so fond of in that little video. Enjoy, darling!
> 
> A huge thank you to our invaluable and incredible beta reader: [noodletheelephant](http://noodletheelephant.tumblr.com/)! Please go say hi to this brilliant human being.

At least he’d managed to hide the filthy sheets before he hid himself amongst the clean ones.

The kill had been unexpected only because Will had found himself covered in blood, when he now so rarely is, using a belt. The man had twisted a certain way, the edge of the belt catching, and then Will was shivering in a warm shower of blood, lips parted and eyes wide and cock trembling against his belly, already spent but certainly stirred again with this.

He had lain in it long enough for the warmth to cool, certainly long enough for the front door opening to jar him into a frantic panic of clean up.

Hannibal knew Will would be hunting today. First, they needed something for dinner, and second, because he himself was going to see what was on offer several islands away while there on a two-day trip, so the body wouldn’t be a surprise at all.

But the blood would be.

The blood certainly would be, if it seeped further into the mattress than it already had, and filthies the floor more than it already has.

Will wonders what feat of strength had him shoving the body into their bathroom and into the bath, bunching the sheets and stuffing them into one of the boxes in the closet. He wonders what instinct had him lifting their bed where the spare, warm, clean-smelling sheets are kept beneath and burrowing in among them, instead of facing his lover like a man victorious in a kill.

He wonders.

Silent and barely breathing, as he hears Hannibal move around on the floor below, he wonders, and feels his smile tug against his lips harder as he waits.

The room stinks enough that even in the hollow storage space beneath their bed, Will is dizzy, though he considers that it might be due to exhilaration and fear, arousal and anticipation. The metallic sheen of blood mixes with the musky scent of sex and sweat, and Will is fairly sure that the body in the bathroom has voided its bowels. He can do nothing but listen as Hannibal’s steps go silent, shoes removed, and bites his lip to stop from flinching when Hannibal’s bag clicks on brass feet to the tile floor.

Only when Hannibal’s hand whispers against the bannister - deliberate, Will knows - does the boy realize how close he is. The sound of the study door creaking against its hinges rips a shiver down Will’s spine. He knows. He’s looking.

Will bites into his lip hard enough to bruise to stop himself from giggling.

He closes his eyes and releases a breath before holding another, long enough, he hopes, that Hannibal does not hear him exhale this one, because footsteps now leave the study and approach the bedroom. Steady, placed deliberately, and exactly as Hannibal wants to place them, like a dancer, like a fighter, always poised and always balanced.

The door doesn’t creak but Will knows it opens, he knows the moment Hannibal smells him because there is a sharp exhale to clear his nose from the mess Will had left in the room. Displeasure, distaste, and a beautiful sort of resignation that he knew his boy would do this, but he had hoped, at least, that he would have aired the room after.

Will follows Hannibal’s movement in his mind’s eye only, knowing the dimensions of the room intimately, knowing when he stops by the glass door to the balcony, hears it open, knowing when Hannibal makes his way to the bathroom. He nearly loses his breath when Hannibal makes a sound of genuine distress at seeing the mess in there.

Will parts his lips and opens his throat before allowing his held breath to flow silently free. He takes another as Hannibal returns to the bedroom, covering the inhale under the hushed whispering of socks against carpet.

“Will?”

Hannibal’s voice is dulcet, speaking sleek smooth notes like a woodwind instrument. His dismay resonates in the reeds of his throat, requiring no more force than a sigh to be expressed, but still Will waits, and hopes his scent is covered by the body in the bath and the salty sea breeze that carries through the open doors.

Hannibal hums.

“I know you’re here, little wolf. And I know you were playing with your dinner far too long. It has begun to grow stale, already. Stiffening where you dropped it.” The closet door opens, and there is a pointed pause as Hannibal surveys the sheets.

“Do you know how difficult it is to force the rigor out of limbs left akimbo? Or how putrid the meat will taste if left until the tension passes?”

Will closes his eyes, despite his dark concealment, to focus on his breathing, whole notes in a largo tempo, and entirely silent.

“You are wasteful,” Hannibal answers, pushing the sweetness of his voice to a hiss, given too much air through too tight lips. “And I know you are here. And I will find you.”

Will’s heart beats out of time with the careful steps around the bedroom as Hannibal opens another window, pulls the sheets from their poorly-conceived hiding place, filthy and impossible to clean properly.

More waste.

Another thing that Will is going to feel against his skin as reprimand.

He swallows, parts his lips and lets another breath silently leave him as Hannibal circles the bed again.

There is a hum, basso, of profound displeasure as Hannibal surveys the mattress, brown where blood has soaked through and begun to dry, coagulated in gelatinous clots.

“Perhaps you will join me, this time, in preparing your gentleman caller. I know that in your sloth you prefer not to dirty your hands with such things, but they will be of use to me, considering the gift that you’ve left.”

His voice carries, from one side of the bed to the other, and away to another closet.

“It will be an excellent lesson for you, little wolf, to understand the amount of work that goes into preparing the meals with which you shamelessly stuff yourself, spoiled and decadent. His limbs, splayed over the edges of the tub, will need be broken if we are to make the most of him before he goes to spoil. Have you heard an elbow break, Will, stiffened in death? Like a thick branch, dried in midwinter. Or a knee, loud enough to remind one of a gunshot.”

A susurrus shivers through Will when Hannibal slides open the closet door.

“I will hold his foot, and you will lean your weight against his joint to force it flat again.”

The low hum of Hannibal’s voice draws near again, to the foot of the bed.

“Perhaps I will make you sit upon it, and feel the vibration of its cracking up your spine.”

Light blinds Will as Hannibal jerks the mattress upward, revealing the blood-stained boy coiled beneath. He hardly has time to sit before a blow, unseen in the brightness, connects with a snap across his cheek. He hardly has time to gasp before another lays him flat again.

“Get out,” Hannibal seethes.

Will shivers, blinks, and finally finds his eyes adjusting to the light as he looks up at Hannibal looming over him with a halo of sunlight around his immaculate hair.

He looks brutal and livid, a genuine avenging angel sent to earth with spear and spite and eighteen wings of gold. Will blinks at him in awe, bright smile and beautiful eyes and blood smeared against his face where he had rushed to fold the mess away.

He has filthied the sheets around him, too, having burrowed so deep into them. Hair and skin and lips all covered in drying blood and other messes. 

“Oops?” Will smiles wider and arches in the little alcove he’s hidden in, crying out in surprise and pleasure both as Hannibal strikes him again, snares his hand in Will’s hair and proceeds to pull him out from under the bed.

Will goes, feet helping to keep his back from scraping over the edge of the bed, flailing and squirming as he starts to laugh at the absurdity of it all, pulled from under the bed like a misbehaving child about to be taken over the knee to be reminded of what he did wrong, taught never to do it again.

His cry becomes a laugh, half-mad in the sudden dam of adrenaline burst from waiting, waiting, waiting - for days before longing for the man’s return, for the tense minutes since his arrival home. Hannibal’s eyes widen as he snaps Will to standing and nearly bends him backwards, shaking the boy by his matted curls.

“It’s not funny,” Hannibal snarls, lip curling. “Do you understand?” Hannibal slams the bed back in place with a bang, and another shake forces Will to clutch the edge of the bare mattress to stop from sprawling. He snorts in another helpless giggle when Hannibal spins him to his stomach, bent across the bed, and the older man growls, “It’s not funny.”

Will bites his lip to try and stop but his shoulders shudder as Hannibal smears his face against the cold clotted blood. He is already filthy, unable to resist a grin when Hannibal’s belt buckle rattles and he jerks the tongue free. Little hands splay and clutch, and Hannibal pulls Will by the hair to force his ass higher.

He shivers and curls, limbs trembling and squirming to try and get free, even if it is entirely futile, as they both know it is. Will’s lips part over the mess beneath him and he closes his eyes, remembering how it had felt when warm, cascading down his skin, slipping and slicking it.

He can feel his cock stirring between his legs at the memory.

“I missed you,” Will sighs, trying to soothe his giggling and managing only to bite back another start to them. “I missed you a lot.”

It does little to appease the man, as Will knew it wouldn’t, but it’s entirely true. Every time Hannibal leaves, Will aches for him. He cooks dinners too grand for only himself to fill the house with familiar scents. He fills himself with fingers and toys to try and assuage the absence Hannibal leaves behind. But none of it, the food or the fucking or even the hot coating of blood against bare skin is as satisfying as this.

The belt cracks hard enough against his ass to force the air from his lungs, gasping breathless against gore.

“You have a peculiar way of showing it,” Hannibal purrs, voice dropping in pitch to the warning of a predator. “The sheets, the bed itself - ruined.” He strikes Will with the belt again, leaving numb skin tingling hot in its wake. “I should make you sleep in it as punishment, wretched boy.”

Will’s hands seek out, clawing at the bed, crying out when he’s arched deeper, when his hair is pulled harder, enough to genuinely hurt as he’s whipped again. Will jerks forward, grits his teeth, whimpers long and loud as another stripe is painted dark across his thighs.

“It was -” A gasp, a shudder, Will’s eyes closing as he smears against the mess. “- accidental, the blood was… he turned and - ah! - the belt cut -”

“The belt will certainly cut, insufferable creature.”

Will manages to swallow before Hannibal begins to make good on his word, and the next strike leaves Will panting in pain. And still his lips part on a grin as he moans, still, he trembles wanting to push back to actually feel the man against him properly. He is denied this, of course, despite hearing the man’s trousers slipped down his legs and pushed aside. Instead, sharp fingernails drag over the welts swelling thick over Will’s thighs, digging into raw red skin.

“And how long did you lay with him, Will? After the tremors of death subsided and his heart bled dry. Did you touch yourself beside him until he grew cold? After?”

“I -”

In truth, Will had been entirely too shocked to do more than literally lie in the pool of blood and let it cool against him. He knows he won’t be believed, knows Hannibal has breathed in blood enough to darken his eyes to blackness, pull him from reason as blood in the water would a shark.

“I touched him to feel him cool,” Will says, shivering as no blow comes for the words, pushing up carefully on his toes regardless. “I stood up when the blood was cold… when you got home…”

Another clap of leather against his thigh shatters his words into whimpers. Strong fingers - elegant and powerful - snare Will by his hard little cock and squeeze.

“And this?” Hannibal breathes, leaning over Will’s back. The man’s thighs burn against the stripes left in scarlet, every curl of hair rubbing abrasive where Hannibal deliberately presses. “Shameless, wanton boy. If it has soaked through to the wood, I will -”

“Beat me?” Will grins, eyes fluttering closed as he turns a warm cheek against cold, viscous blood. “Fuck me until I can’t -”

Hannibal jerks his face from the bed and lets Will’s cock press against the mattress, to free his hand and slap him from behind. A gasp, a moan, and Will shoves himself forward to rub against the bed, back to rub against the man pressed over him, and feel Hannibal’s cock press in a rigid line between his cheeks.

“I brought you loukoumades,” Hannibal growls, teeth grazing Will’s bare shoulders. “From the bakery you like.” His tongue presses through the cloying filth, and he shoves his hips hard enough that Will’s voice yelps free. “You will have none.”

“No,” Will moans, rutting hard between death and the one man who brings it more beautifully than Will could possibly imagine. He wonders why it upsets him most that he will be denied his sweets, not that he will be whipped to bleeding and agony, not that he will be forced to take apart a - genuinely filthy, now - dead body so Hannibal can teach him a lesson.

No.

Hannibal brought him treats and now he can’t eat them.

Without warning, a laugh pulls forth from Will again and he tries to get his legs under him to arch harder, push back further in pleasure. Hannibal slaps his thigh with a sharp palm and Will’s giggles subside a little.

“Not even one?”

“None.”

“Hannibal -”

“No,” comes the curt answer. “I would rather see them given to the garbage than to a messy, ungrateful boy who does not deserve them.”

Will frowns a little, pouting. He knows Hannibal is being disingenuous. The man hates waste, especially of food, and even the hopeless sheets will be scrubbed raw with bleach before Hannibal relinquishes them. But his displeasure is pervasive, in every breath against the back of Will’s neck, neither kisses nor kind words forthcoming.

“You wouldn’t,” Will protests, and another hard spank sends Will forward against the bed, and Hannibal shifts his hand from Will’s hair to the back of his neck, pressing him into the mattress with a damp, congealed squish. He listens as Hannibal spits into his palm, intentionally noisome. He listens as Hannibal slicks his cock, skin slipping over skin.

Will makes a soft sound and ducks his head as much as he can, tries to wriggle back and spread himself more but finds himself held still instead, another warning slap that makes him groan in pleasure before he bites his lip, now filthy again from the mess against his face.

“Can I earn them?” Will coaxes, wheedles, lips parting quietly as Hannibal lines up against him, rocks against Will to draw out the anticipation of the sharp stretch - though perhaps not, considering Will’s most latest ex-lover is now stiffening from atrophy in their bathtub.

“Whip by whip and thrust by - FUCK!”

The slap aimed at Will’s face falls light, merely pushing him further against the bed as he laughs, contented, groaning at the familiar stretch of Hannibal in his ass. He curls his toes, draws one of his bloody arms back to spread messy fingers in reaching for Hannibal properly.

“Please?”

His hand is slapped away as Hannibal hums in warning against Will’s neck, shoving the boy nearly off his feet entirely. Relentless, rough friction widens his already loosened hole, stretching him wider, with so little lubrication that every inch feels as though it will split him in two. The next grab with small grasping fingers is snared by Hannibal instead, who twists Will’s arm against his spine.

“Another word, dreadful child, and I’ll drown you in your mess like an unwanted puppy.”

Will strains to find purchase, backwards to set his heels on the ground and stabilize, forward to rub his cock against the mattress. He lifts a foot and drops it with a thud, toes curling against the wood, forcing his ass higher against Hannibal now buried thick and full inside him. Every thrust strains the sinews of Will’s shoulder where Hannibal holds him pinned, sharp thrusts, hardly pulling out at all before Hannibal plants himself deep again.

Will could cry for it.

He might still.

“Please -”

“Enough,” Hannibal answers, and standing tall over the little thing coiling beneath him - and painfully fucking hard - he turns Will’s face to the mattress to smother, to choke.

To rub his nose in his mess.

A gasp and Will presses his free hand to the mattress to try and lever himself away. His breath he can hold, the mess he can clean, but this - this is humiliating. He should have known better, to have the man take him in the kitchen where the blood would be easy to mop up, the floor easy to bleach, to remove the blood from the grout between the pristine tiles. He should have known better, perhaps waited for Hannibal to come home before killing, before hunting.

Surely he’s grown out of such incompetencies.

Will makes a strangled sound of displeasure and tries to twist his arm free, tries to press the mattress from his face to take a breath even as he is driven further into it. He whimpers, heedless and uncaring of Hannibal’s opinion on his suffering, on how gracelessly he is taking his punishment.

He wants to turn quickly and squirm free, kneel by the man’s feet and wrap his arms around him, holding him close. He wants to walk naked to the kitchen, bend over the counter to take the loukoumades from Hannibal’s fingers, suck the honey from them after.

Then Hannibal hits a spot within him that has Will moaning, parting his lips unconsciously against the filth he tastes immediately beneath them. He shivers, groans, and his sounds shift to immediate pleasure when Hannibal thrusts against his prostate again.

It is bliss and dirt and wonder, all at once, and Will is dizzy from it, from lack of air and overabundance of pleasure, all of it. All of Hannibal and everything he is.

It’s only when Will’s fingertips go numb that he’s jerked from the bed, and how Hannibal knows his breath had gone for him so much defies any explanation Will can find. He’s brought Will near to death more times than either could recall, but he always knows when to stop, and he always brings him back. Will’s lungs burn as he gulps down air, the stale blood tainting each gasp he sucks in, and only when he manages to manifest a trembling, high little moan does Hannibal shove his cock deep and cum. He grits a growl against Will’s shoulder and bucks into him, again and again, pumping thick ropey release deep into the boy’s bowels.

Ungentle, he lets go of Will’s hair to grasp his length instead, watching as Will collapses forward and arches himself high. Hannibal’s hand pulls quick tugs over his little cock, fast and merciless, until Will is shaking from pleasure as hard as he did from breathlessness.

And to his credit, Will stays quiet - he doesn’t speak again or beg, and he knows he doesn’t need to and that Hannibal can see his wanting in every unsteady tremor of his body. He clenches hard around Hannibal’s softening cock, milking him dry and earning a warning hum for his effort.

Will turns to laugh against the mattress and rubs his cheek there, as the thrusting of his hips into Hannibal’s hand starts to stiffen, tighten as much as the snarled pleasure in his belly -

“Now, insatiable boy,” Hannibal tells him, and slips his hand over the flushed fat head of Will’s cock to catch his release.

Will shudders, pulsing heat over and over against Hannibal’s palm as he sees stars, tries to catch his breath and finds all he can do is moan, helpless, until the overwhelming pleasure leaves him shaking and weak against the filthy bed.

For a long moment, Will says nothing at all, entire body throbbing and aching and pulsing to the beat of his heart that only seems to find a rhythm when Hannibal presses harder against his back and nuzzles between his shoulders. Then Will just laughs, a helpless, breathless thing that ends in a sob as he curls his bottom lip into his mouth and closes his eyes tight.

Too much.

All too much.

It’s fucking perfect.

“I really didn’t mean -” Another sob shakes him and Will turns his head into the nuzzle that meets him, smiling against the warm lips that brave the filth to kiss against him.

“Of course you didn’t,” Hannibal murmurs, before their lips touch again, again, and still never enough. “Even you would not be so foolish, terrible child.” The words are affectionate now, his anger spent despite the gore still around them, despite the ruined bed and stained sheets, despite the corpse in the bathtub.

Hannibal slips his clean hand beneath Will’s stomach and presses a hand to his chest, lifting the boy back against him. His other hand, smeared with shining white slick, is offered to Will’s lips, and Hannibal meets his gaze with hooded eyes. His smile curves wider.

“Please.”

Obediently, Will licks every single finger clean, taking his time to suck each deep, to draw the flat of his velvety tongue over the palm of Hannibal’s hand and slip the top of it between wide and strong fingers. Clean, it strokes through Will’s hair and he nuzzles into it, humming and licking his lips like a pleased cat in the sun, eyes barely opening as he regards the mess he kneels in.

“You rubbed my nose in it,” Will notes with a quiet snort of laughter, blinking lazily as Hannibal nuzzles his face to the side with a kiss pressed to his cheek.

“I did.”

Will’s smile grows wider and he brings a hand back to curl in Hannibal’s hair, mess and all, to hold him close. After a while they gently sway, from exhaustion or just finding each other’s natural rhythm again is unclear and it doesn’t matter. Will tugs Hannibal’s hair gently before turning his head to the bathroom with a deep sigh.

“I’ll clean up my mess,” he says. “Bring him downstairs and take him apart under your guidance.” Will licks his lips again and frowns in thought. “Should we burn the mattress or -”

“Few enough will notice a bonfire so near the beach,” Hannibal intones, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth in thought. “We will take it apart before, and burn it in the sand. I will not have it destroy the garden.”

With big hands against thin hips, Hannibal sighs long and eases himself out of Will’s ass, squeezing Will when the boy shivers at the feeling. If he is still unhappy, it hardly shows, as Will watches the corners of Hannibal’s eyes gather in pleasure.

“Remove your caller from the bath first, I wish to shower without being watched.” A pause, and Hannibal’s eyes narrow a little more as he turns to remove his shirt. “Perhaps you will earn your dessert yet, little wolf.”


End file.
